Disposable
by Forestwater
Summary: "Maybe she was disposable. Even her life was expendable, she was quickly — and painfully — learning. No sunset rides for her, no The One, no grand victory party with champagne and confetti. It was a pretty shitty destiny, all things considered. If a book had ended this way, she would've been very unsatisfied."
1. Worthless

Lavender was sixteen when she began dating Ron Weasley, and she'd honestly thought it was never going to happen. She knew how the other students at Hogwarts saw her: the shrill one who didn't know how to shut up. The gullible one, who fell for the tricks and trappings of Divination when fortune-telling was _so _passé. The annoying one. The dumb one. The girly one. Even the professors thought so; they might not say it, but she felt the slings and arrows of every wrong answer, every sigh that she just _knew_ was directed at her, every grade that she couldn't drag higher than "Acceptable" no matter how much time and effort she put in.

She was worthless.

With Ron, however, she became something else. Pretty, mostly. Desirable. A hanger-on of the "Golden Trio," as some of the more fawning students called Harry and his best friends. Special, instead of another dull Gryffindor with dull hair and dull eyes and a dull mind.

And . . . the "other woman."

"Yeah, right," she snorted, and then covered her mouth. Did she really say that out loud? Did anyone hear her? No one was looking at her, everyone else in the library buried nose-deep in musty textbooks, but it was several minutes before she could recover from her mortification enough to return to her studies. Her desperate, scrabbling attempts to finally get an O in something other than Divination, which other students thought was useless and stupid anyway, so getting good grades in _that_ class only meant you were extra-stupid, right?

That was what Hermione Granger thought, anyway. And as much as she hated to admit it, in Lavender's mind, Hermione was the standard-bearer for all things smart and level-headed. The opposite of herself, in other words, and the girl she was "othering" by her mere presence.

"Other woman." It conjured up images so unlike herself: a sultry temptress with flowing black locks and bright red lipstick, who sauntered around in slinky dresses and brought men to their knees while frumpy-but-more-worthy wives and girlfriends watched in impotent rage.

Everyone thought that Hermione deserved Ron more than she did. After all, she was the one who'd been friends with him since their first year, who'd helped save Hogwarts countless times at Harry's side, and who glittered with that "goldenness" that had earned the trio their nickname. It was almost a foregone conclusion that eventually Hermione would overthrow her and take her rightful place as the True Girlfriend.

Parvati said she was overreacting—Parvati said that a lot—but that was easy to say from the outside, when you didn't have to worry that the whispering students were talking about _you_, when you didn't feel like an outsider just by your proximity to the most talked-about students in school. Parvati was her best friend and always would be, but she could never understand how Lavender felt.

Ugh. She wasn't getting anywhere with studying, not with all these thoughts swirling around in her head. She slammed the book shut and rested her chin in her hand. _Just a short people-watching break_, she told herself. Sure, there wasn't much to look at but a bunch of kids reading, but such things always become more interesting when trying to avoid homework. Maybe someone would start practicing spells; that was always good entertainment.

Her eyes landed on Ron the second he walked in, flanked by Harry and Hermoine. Without consciously ordering them to, her hands quickly combed through her dirty-blonde curls, her tongue snaked out to moisten her lips, and her spine straightened to best display her chest. _Pretend to read, _she told herself, wishing she hadn't closed her book and imagining the picture she could've made, her neck curving gracefully over the pages, her lip captive between her teeth as though in deep concentration.

But in the end, as she did every time, Lavender couldn't run the risk of his not noticing her. "Ron!" she exclaimed too loud, cutting through the sepulchral silence. A few students looked up; one or two winced, and she wondered if her voice was really that shrill. _Speak lower, dummy!_ _And for Merlin's sake, don't wave like that! It makes you look desperate._

But she _was _desperate. That was the problem.

Ron's eyes met hers reluctantly. He muttered something to the others and branched off, shuffling to her table with his hands in his pockets and his gaze on the floor. "Hi, Lav," he said, plopping into a chair and shifting his focus from his shoes to the book she'd been reading. "Doing homework?"

He used to have this giant, dopey grin whenever he saw her, his ears turning as red as if they'd been boiled. He used to hurry with long, loping strides, giving her a slightly-messy snog that was all chapped lips and probing, inexpert tongue. But things couldn't always stay the same, she knew, and passionate romance always had to fade to something more comfortable. It was a natural enough progression, she supposed.

She came back from her thoughts to find herself talking—and from the somewhat-glazed expression on his face, not about anything interesting. Her face heating up, she trailed off, tucking her hair behind one ear and biting her lip. "_Soooo_, you guys doing anything fun?"

He shrugged. "Just homework. In fact, I should probably get back . . ."

"Oh! Of course."

He clambered to his feet, his long limbs reminding her of a spider. "We'll, er, hang out later, right?" he mumbled, his eyes darting to her face and down to her chest, his ears turning pink.

"Sure, Won-won!" she said, loud enough for the rest of the library to hear and ignoring his wince; she knew he hated that nickname, but she couldn't help herself. He was hers, and she wanted everyone to know it.

With a sigh, she cracked open her textbook, reaching into her bag and grabbing a slimmer volume. Making sure to keep the cover from view, she slipped it into the larger book and held both up to her face until only her eyes were visible.

_"'You don't love him, do you Serena?'_ _Nicholas asked her boldly. His purple eyes gleamed in the dim light like mini-suns, glowing stars she revolved around._

_"'No! I do!'_ _she exclaimed, throwing her long blood-red hair back in defiance. But she wasn't sure . . . was she? If she loved Michael, why did she dream of this rogue pirate's silky raven hair and violet orbs? Why did his touch thrill her so?_

_"Without another word, she Apparated out of the stable, her heart pounding and her emerald eyes filled with tears."_

Parvati thought Lavender's choice of literature was a little silly, but she didn't understand. The sweeping rush of forbidden love, the melodrama brought on by different social situations or an evil plot or a prior love interest (who would be neatly disposed of by the first or second sex scene), the toe-curling erotica she wasn't experienced enough to know were unrealistic . . . It was a world in which everyone was beautiful and quick-witted and the lovers always rode, sailed, or flew off into the sunset with the wind in their hair and their arms wrapped around one another.

A much better world than the real one, if you asked her.

But lately she hadn't found herself enjoying _Love's Stormy Seas _or any of the other books nestled at the bottom of her underwear drawer. She couldn't help but feel bad for the disposable love interest, who didn't do anything wrong but date the wrong person at the wrong time, but who had to be a villain because he—it was almost always a he—stood in the way of true love. It wasn't his fault, after all. How could Michael know that the beautiful redhead was destined to marry a pirate? _He_ deserved true love too, didn't he?

But then again, if he'd just been more passionate, more courageous, maybe he could have altered destiny. A duke could be just as romantic as a pirate, if only he'd tried harder. A few bouquets of flowers, maybe a duel, and things could've gone differently.

You had to fight if you didn't want to be a Disposable Love Interest.


	2. Abandoned

**_Lavender_**_: "What is _she_ doing here?"_

**_Hermione_**_: "I might ask you the same question!"_

**_Lavender_**_: "I happen to be his girlfriend!"_

**_Hermione_**_: "Well, I happen to be his . . . friend."_

* * *

Ron was in the hospital wing, and nobody had thought to tell her. She was his _girlfriend, _he had been _poisoned, _and not _one_ of his friends or relatives had considered letting her know about it! Was she really so inconsequential? Didn't they know she cared?

She found out overhearing Harry and Ginny, lurking uncomfortably around the perimeter, part of their group but not really. She was getting up the courage to say something—what if they thought she was intruding?—when Ginny said, "I stopped by to see Ron. He's doing better, but Madame Pomfrey won't let him get out of bed. Says he still needs to rest."

Lavender suddenly didn't care about whether or not they thought she was interrupting. It took two minutes to get the story out of them—the two exchanging looks like they couldn't believe how much she was overreacting—and then she was gone. She waited outside the hospital wing for a few moments, catching her breath and smoothing down her hair. She didn't want Ron to see her looking like a mess. Once she'd deemed herself acceptable, she slipped into the ward, hurrying to his bedside with the practiced model-stride she knew showed off her legs best.

It didn't matter, though; he was fast asleep, and the only one there to admire her was Hermione. To her annoyance, even _she _didn't look up as Lavender approached, all of her attention focused on a book. For a moment she didn't speak, studying Hermione carefully with jealousy simmering like acid in her stomach.

She wasn't ugly by any means, Lavender had to admit. Her hair was a nightmare of fuzz and frizz, but it was full and a much richer brown than her own, and her skin was the kind of pearly translucence that came of spending all day indoors. She had nice big eyes, framed with long eyelashes that Lavender had been dying to put mascara on since their first year together (though _now_ she wouldn't do it for anything). In general, she looked a lot like the "before" image of many romantic heroines, the kind who just need a little makeup and fashion guidance to transform into a Serena.

Lavender had never felt like a Serena, and she couldn't help but wonder if Ron had made similar comparisons between the two. If this really _was _a fight for the heroine role, she honestly didn't know who would win.

"What are _you_ doing here?" The words slipped out without her permission, but she wasn't going to take them back now. Not when he had been poisoned and his best friends hadn't said anything about it.

Hermione seemed taken aback for a moment, but she composed herself quickly, marking her place and setting the book aside before meeting her gaze with those large brown eyes innocent of any wrongdoing. "I'm one of his best friends."

"But I'm his girlfriend! I'm the one who should be sitting there! W-why didn't anyone tell me about this?" When the other girl simply stared, seemingly at a loss for words, she added, "We share a _bedroom, _Hermione. How could you not say anything?"

"I . . ." She glanced down at Ron, as though wishing he would wake up and distract them from this conversation. "I didn't think of it."

Lavender didn't hate Hermione. They'd never gotten along, no, but there had always been a part of her that had admired her fellow Gryffindor's intelligence. And although she didn't like to admit it, if Hermione had abandoned her loner-tomboy thing long enough to ask Lavender to hang out, she would've felt honored to have captured the attention of someone so special.

But for the first time, it actually seemed like the genius had been stumped. And by _her—_the stupid, gullible one! For a moment she actually felt like the "other woman," and she couldn't resist tilting her chin up so that she could look down at Hermione, reveling in having the upper hand for once. "Really? The _brainiac_ didn't think of something?" But as soon as she felt Hermione's eyes on her again, she lost her courage, and feeling stupid for having been so melodramatic, she looked away and muttered, "There's a first time for everything, I guess." She sat down on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through Ron's tangled curls and refusing to look at Hermione. "Poor thing," she murmured to him. "I got here as soon as I could, darling."

She didn't know how long they sat there, her smoothing out Ron's sweat-matted hair, Hermione doing Merlin-knows-what. But eventually she heard the other girl stand, gathering her things and ducking out of the hospital wing without a word to Lavender, who let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

_I'm not disposable, _she thought, taking Hermione's seat and wishing she'd brought a book of her own to pass the time. _I don't care if I don't "deserve" him, I won't be thrown away._


	3. Ignored

_"At first, Lavender had been very annoyed that nobody had thought to tell her that Ron was in the hospital wing —_ _'I mean, I _am_ his girlfriend!"_ _—_ _but unfortunately she had now decided to forgive Harry this lapse of memory and was keen to have lots of in-depth chats with him about Ron's feelings, a most uncomfortable experience that Harry would have happily forgone."_

* * *

"Hey, Harry?"

Lavender was still angry about not being informed about Ron's condition, but she wasn't going to take it out on anyone. She didn't need a romance novel to tell her that alienating his friends would be a terrible idea, and since her relationship with Hermione, while never more than civil, had just gotten a lot more hostile, Harry was her only shot at getting back in the group's good graces.

He turned around and gave her a wary look, not excited to see her but not angry, either. "Yeah?"

Of course, it wasn't like Harry had any special reasons to like her. He was the Boy Who Lived, a hero, and she was a boring little nobody who'd encroached on his territory. Besides, last year she'd believed the Ministry of Magic when it tried to paint Harry as a liar, and though she'd come around eventually, she wondered if he would ever really trust her or any of the others who'd turned their backs on him.

She didn't want to talk about that. But what else did she know about him? There was You-Know-Who, of course, but that would just be depressing. Quidditch? She could barely follow it for Ron's sake; there was no way she could fake her way through an entire conversation. Besides that, Harry was an enigma, and she'd always been a little intimidated by him.

"Um . . . how's Ginny?" Lavender wasn't the most observant girl in Hogwarts, but she'd noticed that he'd been mooning over Ron's sister for the past several months. Since Hermione wasn't the type to talk about girl problems—she and Parvati had tried—maybe she could.

His face darkened. "Fine, I guess. Why?"

Maybe he didn't want to talk about it. She could always make him more comfortable by talking about Ron! That way he'd know that she understood how it felt to be in love with a Weasley who's . . . well, a little difficult. Besides, maybe she could get a glimpse into Ron's mind, see why he'd been so distant recently and what she could do to get things back to normal. Ron was asleep every time she visited—or so he seemed, even when she could hear his voice in the hallway before she entered the room—and when they'd normally spent time together, it wasn't often talking anyway. So where else was she going to get another perspective?

So she offered up her boy troubles to the most famous person she'd ever met, hoping that it would make her good enough to enter the Golden Trio's inner sanctum.

If not, she wasn't sure what else to do.


	4. Unclean

**_Ron_**_: " [...] we don't really talk much. It's mainly [...] "_

**_Harry_**_: "Snogging."_

**_Ron_**_: "Well, yeah."_

* * *

It had taken Lavender years to discover that other girls felt as bad about their appearance as she did. Having almost exclusively devoured romances since she was fourteen, she thought that the world was full of fire-spitting smartasses, confident in their own beauty, or at least too preoccupied with sword fights and intrigue to care about their appearance. The fact that she thought about how she looked—"obsessed" might be a better word—and found it wanting made her feel alien. Such insecurities didn't belong to Serenas; they were for the chubby sidekicks who sometimes ended up with the Disposable Love Interest or were left single as a punch line, cramming pastry into their faces to suffocate their insecurities.

When she walked in on Parvati crouched over a hand mirror, plucking a fine black mustache off her upper lip and crying, she'd felt . . . free. Like she finally had permission to feel without guilt, or without worrying that she would forever be relegated to sidekick-dom, a footnote in someone else's romance.

Hermione irked her because she didn't seem to have those insecurities. Either she liked the way she looked or cared too much about other things to let it distract her, and she'd often shoot sidelong looks at the girls whenever they shared makeover tips and body complaints. That look, raised eyebrows and pursed lips, had always made Lavender feel weak. A weak, shallow, and silly girl who would never be wanted.

When Ron snogged her for the first time, she'd decided that she was going to marry him. (It wasn't a _conscious _decision, not then; she might be clingy and desperate, but she wasn't insane.) Any man who made her feel as beautiful and perfect as he did must the The One, and far be it for her to let The One slip through her fingers.

For all she knew, another The One might never come along, and where would she be then?

She liked snogging Ron, but she _loved _snogging him in public. It'd been embarrassing at first, but feeling the presence of others, knowing that they were watching her be chosen and desired before their very eyes was intoxicating. It was a public refutation of every terrible thought, every guilt-ridden breakdown over tummy rolls or second chins, every teary complaint about her eyes and her hair and her shrillness and her stupidity and her tendency to cry or complain. All of it was wiped away by his fingers, washed away by his tongue. And everyone would see her stroked clean and beautiful.

They didn't talk much, but they didn't need to. Their public displays of affection were everything she could have needed and more than she deserved.

That's why his pulling away hurt her so much. Her self-loathing, caked on by hours and days of critical thoughts, wasn't being swept away; in fact, every time he rejected her it was another sooty smear across her body, her personality. She began wondering if she needed to lose weight, become smarter or funnier.

Parvati could say she was becoming too clingy, but she didn't know how it felt to suddenly feel worthwhile, then just as suddenly have that validation taken away.

Every time Ron chose Hermione's presence over hers, the stains of self-hatred became darker. Soon they would blot her out.

"Look at yourself, Lav!" Parvati finally snapped, waving her hand at her tear-streaked face, the piles of tissues around the bed. "When will you just admit that you're not happy and _end _the damn thing?"

Not for a little while longer, it turned out.

When she saw him slip out of the common room with Hermione, looking conspiratorial and furtive, it was almost a relief. As she cried and yelled at him, not caring that her nose and mascara were both beginning to run, her heart felt lighter even as it was breaking.

Ron Weasley, one of the Golden Trio, Quidditch Keeper and all-around too good for a dull, ugly girl with nothing to offer, had chosen her anyway. And that felt good. She, the dull, ugly girl with nothing to offer, had dumped him. And that didn't feel too bad, either.

Lavender missed him, not just because of the way he made her feel but because he was cute and funny and had the nicest smile. But she didn't feel empty and desperate anymore, not once she'd gotten back into the habit of being single. She might have been the Disposable Love Interest instead of the heroine, but breaking things off felt pretty heroic anyway.

That night, when she wiped the tears, makeup, and snot off her face, she could've sworn her tissue had a few smears of soot on it.


	5. Disposable

_"'NO!'_ _shrieked Hermione, and with a deafening blast from her wand, Fenrir Greyback was thrown backward from the feebly stirring body of Lavender Brown."_

* * *

It seemed unfair that the last thing she should hear was Hermione's voice.

Maybe it was petty to focus on that, when she was currently a patchwork quilt of bruises and cuts and hemorrhaging blood from her jugular. But still, the irony of being saved by _her_ was more than a little annoying, and it wasn't like she had anything else to think about. She wasn't exactly going to spring to her feet and keep fighting, was she?

Her last year of Hogwarts, holding down the fort while the Golden Trio went off to fight You-Know-Who, had been a strange one to say the least. There was an unspoken agreement that everyone who opposed the dark lord's increasing invasion of their school was just stalling, maintaining stability until the real heroes could come back and vanquish evil once and for all. They were just killing time until then.

In other words, they were cannon fodder.

But at the same time it had been the most empowering experience of her life—and no one would ever know about it. She had been tortured, beaten, and forced into hiding in order to protect her fellow students, and she had helped Ginny and Neville organize revolts, rebellions, and communications with the outside world. She didn't have much to offer, but she offered it all the same, and did good and worthwhile things that had nothing to do with being beautiful or even special. She was just herself.

Maybe she was disposable. Even her life was expendable, she was quickly—and painfully—learning. No sunset rides for her, no The One, no grand victory party with champagne and confetti. It was a pretty shitty destiny, all things considered. If a book had ended this way, she would've been very unsatisfied.

But "disposable" wasn't the same thing as "worthless."

And Lavender Brown, it turned out, was worth quite a lot.


End file.
